Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance)

by Adams, Claire

  “Suit yourself,” she says and stuffs a glass pipe. “Keep your seat,” she says. “I’ll take it in the other room. My tolerance is still pretty low, so I won’t be long.”

  “All right,” I tell her, and she walks out of the room.

  Okay, my theory before: if she was just trying to befuddle me to empower herself in an otherwise helpless situation, I’m not sure this is the way she’d go about doing it.

  But what do I know? I’m not that kind of doctor.

  I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Melissa, telling her that I’m going to be home early.

  I don’t have any concrete reason as to why, but I’m getting the feeling that Grace doesn’t have that many people she feels she can talk to about what’s going on.

  Maybe she’s just acting out; maybe it’s a personality change from the oligodendroglioma. Regardless, while I don’t see myself staying too much longer, I no longer feel the need to just cut and run.

  It’s less than a minute from the time I heard the door to the other room shut and the time I hear it open again.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “Your tolerance must really be low if you’re out and back that quick.”

  “I’m not a stoner,” she says. “So, let’s talk.”

  “All right,” I respond. “What would you like to talk about?”

  She sits down on the couch next to me and pats my knee, saying, “So, what’s it like being a streetwalker? Does it pay well?”

  Chapter Three

  The Five-Letter Word

  Grace

  “It was your doctor?” Margaret asks in a loud voice.

  “Be cool, Mags, damn,” I respond. “Yeah, it was my doctor. Nothing happened. If anything, I’d say he was more freaked out by the situation than I was.”

  “So, you two didn’t end up, you know…”

  “Did I permit him to storm the gates of my Bastille?” I ask.

  “I have no idea what that means, but the way you ask makes me think I want to say yes,” she answers.

  “No,” I tell her. “We just talked for a while.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “Yeah,” I scoff, “I’ve got an appointment at his office this Thursday.”

  “You’re not keeping him as your doctor,” she protests.

  “Why not?” I ask. “Neither of us planned for what happened and what he does in his personal time is really none of my business.”

  “Oh my God,” she gasps, “you like him!”

  “Will you stop?” I ask. “What the hell are we, teenagers?”

  “Isn’t he married?”

  “How would you know if he was?”

  “I wouldn’t,” she says, “but it stands to reason that a handsome doctor would have to be married.”

  “It’s not like when we were younger,” I tell her. “Doctors aren’t the pinnacle of the quest for dick anymore.”

  “You talk like a sailor, you know that?”

  “Have you ever heard a sailor talk?” I return.

  “No,” she answers.

  “Trust me, they don’t talk like that,” I tell her. “Besides, doctors get paid shit nowadays with all the malpractice insurance and all that shit. If you’re looking for someone in the medical field, go with someone who works for a drug company or an insurance company. Sure, they’re generally scum, but they’re the ones with all the money and power.”

  “My father works for a drug company,” Mags says, missing the point.

  “Whatever. But yeah, thanks for setting me up with the one male escort that not only didn’t, but never would turn my one into a zero.”

  “If that’s some new kind of dirty talk,” she says, “you’re really going to have to let me borrow the dictionary because I don’t have a clue-”

  “Never mind,” I interrupt. “So, John’s really staying on?”

  Along with being my friend, Mags is also my secretary. She likes to be called a personal assistant, but the way her face goes that shade of you-bastard-pink every time I use the “s” word, I find it difficult to refer to her as anything else.

  “Yeah,” she says. “At least, until we know how the new fall lineup’s going to pan out.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell her. “Wasn’t he being forced out because of something or another?”

  “That’s the scuttlebutt,” she says, “but it looks like he’s not too worried about it anymore.”

  “Scuttlebutt?” I ask. “And you’re telling me that my terminology is opaque.”

  Really, I just said that last part in hopes that she doesn’t know the word and would give her classic fake grin and wide eye expression that she thinks, for some reason, isn’t a billboard every time she doesn’t know a word.

  There it is.

  “Opaque means that something is difficult or impossible to see through. In this case, it could be said to mean that it’s simply unclear,” I explain and wait for the series of too-quick head nods and assertions that she does, in fact, know what the word means.

  “I know what it means,” she says, and I’m wondering how she’s managed to stave off whiplash this long.

  “What do I have after lunch?” I ask.

  She pulls her planner from her purse and looks through it.

  “It looks like you’ve got a teeth cleaning at four,” she says.

  I’m waiting to hear what else I have, but it’s been a growing trend that there’s not much what else to have.

  “Seriously?” I ask. “We were moving forward with Ainsley and the board. Are you really telling me that there’s nothing else on the schedule?”

  “Oh, you’re right,” she says, tapping the page of her planner with her finger. “Your mother called and wanted to make sure that you haven’t quit your job and started doing porn. She told me that she’d call back around two o’clock.”

  “Ah, Mom,” I yawn. “I really do have to figure out a way to get her to lose my number.”

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Mitch, one of my boss’s bosses says, approaching our table.

  “Hey, Mitchell,” Mags says, and I don’t hide the rolling of my eyes.

  Mags, my dear sweet Margaret, secretary extraordinaire of mine, has a thing for old money. By old, I don’t mean that the money’s been in the family for generations. I mean that she loves the idea of marrying some rich bastard and having him die just after he puts her in his will.

  So far, it hasn’t worked, but she has had a lot of disgusting nights that I’ve had the displeasure of hearing about over the last year or so.

  “Mr. Young,” I say, as always making a conscious effort to avoid cringing at the irony of a man of his rather advanced age having a surname like that, “we were just talking about what our next step should be in approaching our expansion.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t trouble yourself about that too much, dear,” he says. “We’ve got some of the best people working on it as we speak.”

  You son of a bitch, I am the best people — person, and this whole thing was my idea, you wrinkled, old fuck.

  “That’s good to hear,” I smile. “You know, I’ve got some great ideas that I’d like to run by you sometime when you’re not too busy. In fact, I think we might be able to increase our presence in the Midwest for less than we’ve got budgeted for-”

  “That’d be great,” Mr. Dickhead answers. “Margaret, I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something in my office.”

  I’m thinking about puppies and unicorns and trains crashing into orphanages to fight the urge to vomit at the thought of what’s about to happen between the two of them.

  “I’ll be right there,” she tells him.

  “You know,” I say, “Mags and I have a lot of work to do this afternoon, but I’m sure we could get Daniel from accounting to give you a hand.”

  “You know,” Mr. Young says, “as I think about it, I think I might have a few minute
s this afternoon to discuss your ideas. You always do have the best insights into these things, after all.”

  “Have Mags put you in my book when you’re done with her,” I tell him.

  Yeah, that’s right you old leech. I know what’s going on here, and I’m not above light blackmail to make sure I benefit from it.

  “Will do,” he agrees nervously.

  Mags gets up from her chair, and I could swear that the front of her blouse just got a little tighter from her nipples hardening at what, to anyone else, would be a thoroughly scarring experience.

  I’m starting to think she’s just into guys that look like her grandfather.

  In her defense, though, I’ve seen her grandfather and he made me forget that Sean Connery ever existed.

  Ah, Mr. Young, if only I were fifty years older…

  When I get back to my office, I pop a couple of ibuprofen and look over my personal schedule. It’s grim.

  I don’t know if people aren’t calling because they’re trying to be respectful of my recovery or whether they think me unfit. Either way, this can’t keep happening.

  Sooner or later, people are going to start asking why Grace Miller hasn’t been pulling her weight and I don’t think telling them that I’m being shut out is going to be an excuse that changes anything for the better.

  Even if my coworkers and my bosses are trying to do the nice thing, if this doesn’t change, it’s going to cost me my job.

  I pick up the phone.

  “John Parker.”

  “Hey, John, it’s Grace Miller. I was hoping you had a minute,” I say.

  “Sure thing, Grace. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to inform you that I’m going to go ahead and pull the trigger with Mitch this afternoon, and I wanted to give you another chance to come on board,” I tell him.

  What I’m doing right now is picking a fight, but it’s a fight that needs to happen. If I’m not stirring the pot, I’m getting lost in the background, and there’s no quicker, more effective way of marking my territory than directly challenging my own boss.

  “I really think you’ll want to reconsider that,” John says. “I know you’ve been going through a bit of a time recently, but that’s no reason to roll out a scorched earth policy.”

  “This has nothing to do with what happened,” I tell him. “You know what my position is and what it has been for a long time, and frankly, I don’t see the point in waiting when we’re losing every single day.”

  “We’re not losing, Grace,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting. We’ll discuss this later.”

  “Fine,” I tell him. “I’ll let you know how my meeting with Mitch goes.”

  “You will not.”

  “Fine, I won’t tell you how-”

  “You’re not going above my head, Grace,” he says. “I know this is your pet project, but I swear to God, if you go behind my back and defy me, you’re going to wish you never got that second interview.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell him.

  “Grace,” he says again.

  “It’s going to come up, John. That much is out of my hands now. I’ll pull my punches a bit, but I’m not just going to sit on this forever. I’ve been cultivating relationships in some of our more prominent potential markets, and we both know how long those relationships last without plenty of cash flow.”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” he says. “For now, bring it up if you have to, but as far as anyone else knows, you’re just spit-balling. Noncommittal is the word.”

  “I’m not sure that it’s the proper word, but I get it, John,” I answer.

  “You know what?” he asks. “I think maybe it’s time you go back to calling me Mr. Parker.”

  I hang up the phone and smile.

  To the untrained eye, it might appear that I just landed on my boss’s shit list. The truth, on the other hand, is that I’ve been on my boss’s shit list pretty much since I started working here and it’s from that position that I’ve always been able to affect the greatest amount of change.

  If nothing else, I have a feeling that I’m going to start getting phone calls again here really soon.

  * * *

  My meeting with Mitchell Young goes everywhere but anywhere, but the point was never progress. Mitchell Young and John Parker are, on most things, of the same mind and I want it to be clear to anyone who’s paying attention, anyone that either of these men talk to on a day-to-day basis, that I’m not fucking around.

  If nothing else, I’ve just saved my job, even if I will end up having to wait a little longer to get what I want from it.

  Right now, though, I’m sitting on my couch at home, snuffing out my amateur attempt at a joint and wondering why I still have yet to figure out that I should just have a glass of water waiting on the table for me so I don’t have to make the arduous trek all the way into the next room to wet my mouth.

  My next round of chemo starts before too long, and I’m already dreading it.

  I’m not sure if I’m getting in a capsule the same stuff that others get in their veins, but what I do know is that if it weren’t for pot, something which I’ve never had the slightest inclination to even try before all of this, the hell of chemo would be a lot darker.

  Even with my little green friend, though, I’m not looking forward to round two.

  The nice thing is that, as a decently paid professional, I’ve been able to quite literally change my hair on a daily basis.

  This is one of those times where it would be really nice to have a friend that I’m not employing, but I don’t have any of those. Working an average of eighty hours a week isn’t particularly conducive to interpersonal relationships.

  So, I get up the courage to make my way into my kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water before realizing that I bought bottled water for just such an occasion and I go back into the living room and gargle a moment before I pull out my phone and dial the number.

  It’s a short phone call.

  I sit and veg out to some old episodes of The Golden Girls for a while before there’s a knock on my door.

  “Just a minute!” I call and make sure all my smoking gear is put away, and I spray some air freshener just to cover any lingering smell. I’m not doing anything illegal; I am a patient with a valid prescription for a serious medical condition. Still, people can be so judgmental.

  I open the door and Jace comes in, saying, “You know, we’ve got to stop meeting this way.”

  I smile and close the door behind him.

  He compliments me on my hair, which is shorter, lightly disheveled, yet still professional and black with just a tinge of purple if the light catches it just right. This is one of my favorites.

  “So, how was the traffic on your way over?” I ask.

  “It was fine,” he says. “You know, you don’t have to call me through my agency.”

  “I don’t have your home number, and this isn’t exactly a medical emergency, so it doesn’t seem right to have the hospital page you-”

  “It’s just,” he starts and then hesitates, “I charge less for my time as a doctor than I do as an escort.”

  “Well, since I’m both your patient and your client in your sex work-”

  “I don’t have sex with my clients,” he protests, but I couldn’t care less.

  “I’m just saying, I think maybe it’s time to discuss some kind of discount,” I snicker.

  “Why me?” he asks. “You could have asked for someone else, you could have called a different service. I’m your doctor. That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Does it bother me that you’re my doctor?” I ask, adding an extra touch of snark to the situation. “No,” I conclude. “It would bother me less if I didn’t have to have a doctor at all, but we are where we are. So, what got you into medicine? And, don’t give me the trite answer.”

  “What’s the trite answer?” he asks stupidly.

  “You know very well what the trite answer is,” I tell him. />
  “What if I did get into it to help people?”

  “Then you’re more boring than I thought. Are you single?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, my secretary thinks there’s no way a doctor who could pass for a rent-a-cock wouldn’t be married, but I think you’re less predictable than that,” I answer.

  “I would have thought that being a doctor and an escort would have told you that I’m not that predictable,” he answers.

  “By the way, you’re taking me out tonight,” I tell him.

  “What?” he asks. “Why?”

  “Well, you said that I could have called another agency or simply asked for someone else, but at the same time, when you got the call, you could have said that you couldn’t make it. You could have given any number of excuses that would have gotten you out of coming here without imperiling your job as a hired gun, if you’ll forgive the expression, but here you are in my living room once again.”

  I’m not going to lie: I’m having fun with this.

  “I guess I just thought that maybe — I don’t know,” he answers.

  “You thought what?” I ask.

  “I came here tonight to tell you that we can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I’m your doctor and-”

  “Yeah, that’s boring,” I interrupt. “So, why did you become a doctor?” I ask again as I get out of my seat and collect my purse. “You can tell me on the way.”

  “I can’t go out with you,” he protests.

  “The charge on my card would suggest differently,” I answer. “Come on. We’re going to get you drunk and maybe, if you’re a gentleman, I’ll let you take advantage of me later.”

  “It’s stuff like that,” he says. “There are rules against this sort of thing. We can’t-”

  “Oh, calm down,” I tell him. “I’m not looking to cost you your license. I’d just like to go out on the town with an attractive man, if for no other reason than to get other attractive men to notice just how fuckable I am.”

  “You know, you talk like a sailor,” he says.

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” I ask. “I suspect that a lot of people are claiming a connection to maritime sociology that they don’t actually possess.”